Jupiter’s Bones

“You’re home.” She glanced at the wall clock. “And at a reasonable hour.”

Hannah started jumping on the couch. Again, Decker picked her up, threw her up in the air and set her down.

“Something smells very good.”

“Chicken with garlic.”

“Do I have enough time for a quick shower?”

“It’s not a problem for me.” Rina looked at Hannah, who was tugging on Decker’s sleeve.

“Let’s play, Daddy,” the little girl shouted.

“In a minute, honey,” Decker answered.

“Hannah, let Daddy take off his jacket.”

“You can take off your jacket in my room!”

Hannah’s room was an outpouching off their master bedroom. Decker had built the house with only two bedrooms. In retrospect, poor planning. But after his divorce, he never assumed that he’d be hosting anyone other than Cindy.

Hannah pulled at her father’s hand. “Let’s go, Daddy!”

“Hannah, hold on!” Rina chided.

The little girl looked disappointed, but remained quiet. Rina immediately felt guilty. “Oh, go ahead! We’ll talk later.”

The five-year-old brightened. “Goody! Let’s go!”

“A minute, sweetie.” Decker held back impatience. “Boys okay?”

“They should be home any minute.”

“Do you need me for anything?”

“It’s all right. Go with your daughter. We’ll have the evening to catch up.” She looked at him with piercing eyes. “You are done with work, right?”

Decker winced. “Scott and Margie are coming over around eight. But just for an hour or so.”

Rina didn’t speak. She had heard that one before.

“No, really,” Decker reassured her. “We’ll wrap it up quickly. It’s the Ganz thing. Which seems pretty straightforward … at the moment.”

She had heard that one before as well. “It’s fine, Peter. I put Hannah to bed at that time anyway.”

Again, Decker grimaced. “Didn’t I say that I was going to put her to bed tonight?”

“You can do it tomorrow night.”

“I said that last night, didn’t I?”

“C’mon, Daddy! Let’s go do puppets!”

“Go, Peter,” Rina told him. “I’ll call you when dinner’s on the table.”

Hannah said, “You can sit on the floor while I get the show ready.”

“Can I change my clothes first, Hannah?”

“Sure you can change your clothes!” she shouted with generosity.

“Maybe I can look at the paper while you set up?”

Hannah’s face darkened.

Rina said, “Now you’re pushing it.”

“Silly me,” Decker said, “I meant after dinner.”

Hannah recovered her cheer. “Sure you can look at the paper after dinner, Daddy. After we play squiggles.”

“She’s made plans,” Decker said.

“Yes, she has.” Rina smiled sadly. “Lucky her. She has yet to learn how futile plans can be.”

Pluto led the detective duo into an alcove off the main sanctuary. It had enough room for a trestle table and four chairs. The walls were covered by bookshelves. As she sat, Marge caught some of the titles, all of them having to do with the metaphysical. No surprises there. Nova, the podiatrist, paused before choosing the seat opposite Marge. Immediately, Oliver took up the chair next to the Doc, closing in on the man’s personal space.

Chunky and balding, Nova appeared to be in his middle thirties. He wore the costume of a privileged attendant—the blue robe and purple vest—but the vest sported an embroidered caduceus. His round face held an almost hairless complexion as well as dark, saucer eyes. Probably his hair was once dark brown, but because of its thinness and streaks of gray, it had taken on the sandier tones. His fingers were stumpy, his nails cut short. His hands were shaking—nervous. Marge felt he should be. He had no business signing a death certificate.

Pluto remained at the entryway, his arms folded across his chest. His position made it clear to all that he had no intention of leaving. Marge looked up at him and said, “Thank you, sir, you can go now.”

“I’d prefer to stay,” he answered.

“I realize that,” Marge said. “I’m trying to be polite.”

Pluto remained rooted to his spot.

Oliver shrugged. “If our presence here is problematic, sir, we can take Nova down to the station house—”

“On what grounds?!” Pluto blurted out.

Nova’s voice held a tremolo. “Brother Pluto, I appreciate your show of solidarity. But if they want to talk with me in private, I have no objection.”

Pluto’s eyes narrowed.

Quickly, Nova added, “Brother Pluto, you know how much I respect your wisdom. If I require your help, I shall ask for it immediately.”

Marge said, “Make it easy on all of us.”

Pluto glared at the detectives. “We all have work to do. Be quick.” Then without another word, he turned and left.

Oliver stood up and peeked around the opening. Pluto had remained nearby. Oliver gave him a wave. The short man turned an angry red, but finally left the temple.

Oliver returned to his place. “I think Brother Pluto has a trust problem.”

Nova said, “He’s protective.”

“I think it goes deeper.” Oliver took out the tape recorder and handed it to Marge. “I think he doesn’t want you saying the wrong thing.”

Nova bristled. “I can speak for myself.”

Marge made the necessary identifications for the tape, then placed the recorder in front of Nova. “So you take full responsibility for your own actions?”

“Of course!” Nova was indignant. “We’re all adults.”

Marge said, “So tell me why you signed Jupiter’s death certificate when you’re only a podiatrist.”

Nova raised his voice. “Detective, I am a trained medical practitioner. I was the most qualified here to make such a determination.”

“And if you were on a desert island, I’d say fine and dandy,” Marge said. “But here in L.A. there are better people to make that determination. As a medical practitioner, you must know that suspicious deaths require investigations—”

“I had no way of knowing that the death was suspicious—”

“Exactly,” Marge interrupted. “That’s why you should have called the police and let them handle it.”

“I resent this line of inquiry!”

“You can resent it just so long as you answer me,” Marge said. “Why didn’t you call the police?”

“I saw no need—”

Marge interrupted. “Sir, as a podiatrist, how many autopsies have you conducted?”

Oliver broke in, “Sir, we’re not challenging your abilities. We’re just wondering why you went out on a limb.”

Marge said, “Were you pressured to wrap the thing up?”

“Certainly not!”

“So why’d you do it?”

“Because Father Jupiter was dead!” Nova was flushed, droplets falling down his forehead. “Someone had to make it clear to the followers that he wasn’t returning to earthly life. I felt that I was the chosen one for the mission.”

Oliver said, “Doctor, when did you first check him out?”

“When?”

“What time?” Marge asked.

Nova took in a breath and let it out. He wiped his face with a tissue. “Around five in the morning. Perhaps a little later.”

“And you examined him thoroughly?”

“Of course—”

“Took his pulse?”

“This is insulting—”

“Checked the heart?”

Nova leaped to his feet. “I will not stand here and be abused like this!”

“A standard death certificate asks for time of the demise,” Marge said. “What time did you put down?”

The brother faltered. “I don’t remember the exact time to the minute. As I stated, I was called in a little after five.”

“But that really wasn’t the time of his death, sir,” Marge said.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean Jupiter didn’t actually die at five in the morning.” She glared at Nova. “Or did he?”

“Detective …” Oliver warned. Time to play off her aggression. He turned to Nova. “I know this sounds like we’re … doubting your competency—”

“It certainly does!” Nova looked pointedly at Marge. “I was just doing my duty—to the Order and to my profession—”

“Meaning you checked Jupiter’s feet for corns?”

“Detective …” This time Oliver was chiding her in earnest. To Nova, he said, “Why don’t you sit back down?”

With reluctance, Nova returned to his chair, refusing to look at Marge. She stood up. “I gotta use the bathroom. Don’t bother with the directions, I’ll find it myself.”

As soon as she left, Nova wiped his brow with a blue silk handkerchief. “She is a detriment to your department!”

“She’s a good cop,” Oliver said flatly.

“She’s got a rotten disposition.” Nova imitated her. “‘Meaning you checked his feet for corns?’ She hasn’t the foggiest notion of what a podiatrist is or what he does. We’re extremely well trained.”

“I’m sure you are,” Oliver said. “But we are bothered by your not calling the police right away.”

“What difference does it make?” Nova said. “The police were obviously called in.”

Oliver said, “So you called them?”

Nova fidgeted. “No, I didn’t.”

“But someone did. Any idea who?”

“I was told it was Ganz’s daughter—Europa.”

“Any idea who called her?”

“None.”

But he squirmed as he uttered the word. Oliver didn’t press him on it … not yet. “Who called you into the room?”

“Brother Pluto. He asked me to make some kind of assessment as to why he died … to tell the people something. I had to make a split-second decision as to the cause of death. Remember I was stunned myself. Shocked! Although Father Jupiter wasn’t feeble, he was in his seventies. A coronary didn’t seem out of line. I knew that if there was more, it would come out later on.”

Oliver scratched his nose. “Sir, what do you mean by more?”

Nova stuttered. “Well, if the death was something other than a heart attack.”

“The empty liquor bottle didn’t make you a bit curious?”

Again, Nova faltered. “Alcohol can bring on a heart attack, especially in an older man.”

“Did Father Jupiter drink?”

“An occasional sacramental glass of wine.”

“But not usually an entire bottle of vodka.”

“Of course not … at least, not that I’m aware of.”

“Meaning he might have, but you didn’t know about it?”

The podiatrist grew flustered. “I’ve never known Father Jupiter to be immoderate. Besides, you have no way of knowing how much alcohol he imbibed. That bottle could have been drunk over a year’s time.”

“The pathology report will tell us his blood alcohol level,” Oliver said.

“Then I suggest you save your questions until then.”

Oliver said, “We like to ask our questions right away. Memories are fresher.”

“There’s nothing to tell. I signed a certificate because he was dead.”

Oliver stared at him. “How’d you get hold of an official death certificate? They are the property of the coroner’s office. Why would you even have them here?”

“I have no idea why we have them. But we do.”

Oliver noticed Nova was looking over his shoulder, not making eye contact.

The podiatrist said, “Perhaps I shouldn’t have put down natural causes. But if it’s something more, I simply made an honest mistake.”

Marge returned. “An honest mistake as opposed to a dishonest mistake?”

Nova said nothing, a sour expression stamped on his face.

Marge said, “By the way, you signed the time of death as five thirty-two A.M. You said you were called in around five. What were you doing for a half hour?”

Nova’s face held a triumphant look. “A good examination takes time, Detective.” He looked at Oliver. “Anything else? I really do have other obligations.”

Marge tossed out, “Any idea who called Europa about Jupiter’s death?”

“The detective and I have already crossed that territory.”

“Please answer the question.”

“No, I don’t know who called Europa.”

But Marge noticed that Brother Nova had blushed.

10

Timing was everything. As Decker debated the wisdom of bringing up a hot issue around the dinner table, Sammy jumped the gun by saying, “Did Eema tell you my decision about Israel?”

Decker’s fork stopped midair. “Yep.”

“So what do you think?”

Laying it on the line. Decker emptied the fork and chewed slowly, his elbows resting on the cherrywood tabletop—one of his carpentry projects from his bachelor days. He had finished the set right before he met Rina, and it gleamed thanks to her assiduous polishing. Not all of his woodworking got such attention. She just had a thing for this set. His eyes drifted around the table—first to his daughter, then his stepsons. Nearly sixteen, Jacob would be taking his driver’s license test in a couple of months. Fun and games that was going to be. The boy caught his gaze and smiled at him with twinkling baby blues inherited from his mother. Decker managed to smile back.

Then there was Sam—sullen and serious. At seventeen, he had recently topped six feet. Lanky kid. Still, Decker could spot an underlayer of muscle. Dark eyes and thick, sandy-colored hair—a good-looking boy and brilliant. In one sense, he was almost an adult. The key word was almost.

Decker laid down the fork and wiped his mouth. He chose his words carefully. “Are you open for other opinions or is it a closed matter?”

“Well, I’d like to know what you think.”

“Know what Sarah did today, Daddy?” Hannah interrupted.

“Believe it or not, I am interested in your opinion,” Sammy went on.

Hannah spoke louder. “She ate up all my snack. Isn’t that silly!”

“Great, Hannah,” Sammy muttered. “So what do you think?”

“Isn’t that silly, Daddy?”

Decker answered. “I’m concerned about you being in the disputed territory—”

Hannah shouted, “Isn’t that silly, Daddy?”

“Hannah, quiet!” Sammy said.

The little girl’s face fell.

“Yes, it’s very silly,” Decker answered. “Sam, maybe this isn’t the right time—”

“Why do her needs always come before mine!” Sammy argued. “This is important to me! Don’t you think she can learn to wait a minute before interrupting?”

“It’s not a matter of her needs before yours.” Decker held his sulking daughter’s hand. “But she is only five—”

“Fine!” Sammy dismissed him. “Forget it. I’ll write you a postcard from Gush—”

“Shmuel—” Rina tried.

“I said forget it!”

“Don’t yell at your mom,” Decker said. “For one thing, she’s on your side.”

“I’m not on any side,” Rina stated.

Jacob got up from the table. “Hey, Hannah. Wanna go play draw-a-face on the computer?”

The child still had tears in her eyes. She looked at Jacob, then looked at her mother expectantly. Rina said, “For a few minutes only, Hannah. Your brother needs to eat.”

Jacob extended his hand to his little sister. “C’mon, peanut. You want to draw the girl with a mustache again?”

Hannah giggled and leaped up, knocking down her chair.

“Thank you, Yonkeleh,” Rina said, righting the seat.

“Yeah, Jake’s the good son,” Sammy muttered.

“He’s trying to help you out, Shmuel,” Rina said.

“I know, I know …” He looked at Decker. “I’m nervous. I’m afraid you’re going to say no without even listening to me. And even if you do listen—which I don’t think you’ll do—you’ll still say no.”

Decker tried to stifle his frustration. “So basically, you’ve got me programmed before I’ve said a word.”

“I just know you.”

“Then what’s the point in talking?”

“I’m still interested in your opinion.”

“As worthless as it is—”

“I didn’t say that—” Sammy interrupted.

“All right,” Decker answered. “Just calm down—”

“I’m very calm,” Sammy snapped back. “You’re the one who isn’t calm.”

Cool it, Deck, you can’t win. Take a breather. Decker took a long drink of water. “Sam, I wasn’t wild about you going to Israel period. But going to a yeshiva that’s beyond the green line makes me very nervous. I have legitimate concerns about your safety.”

Sammy said, “Dad, I’ve talked to tons of people who have been there. They say it’s very safe. Much safer than Jerusalem. You know, the biggest problem in Israel is the crazy drivers—a much bigger problem than terrorism. And Gush is out in the country so it’s real quiet—”

“When they’re not sniping at you—”

“Dad, the Arab villages are down below. Gush is up on a hill.”

“So you’re going to stay in this very small vicinity for an entire year and never travel in or out of Israel proper?”

“No, of course not.” Sam played with his food. “It’s twenty minutes from Jerusalem on this new kfeesh which bypasses—”

“What’s a kfeesh?” Decker asked.

“Roadway,” Rina said. “Around three years ago they built the tunnel road, which bypasses some of the Arabs—”

“The tunnel road?” Decker asked.

Rina nodded. “They dug a couple of tunnels underneath the mountainside.”

“Why a tunnel?”

“I guess it was easier to dig under the mountain than to build on top of it. The road bypasses Bethlehem—”

“That’s the main trouble spot, Dad,” Sammy said.

“Sam, the entire area is one big trouble spot.” All Decker could think about was how easy it was to blow up a tunnel. “You’re sitting in the middle of Arab territory—”

“Gush isn’t in the middle of anything,” Sammy retorted. “It’s its own place. It’s been around for … how many years, Eema?”

“Around thirty,” Rina said.

“Dad, it’s not this camp settlement with tents and sleeping bags that the papers make it out to be. It has markets and schools and houses—”

“How many Jews are out there versus how many Arabs?”

“Dad—”

“Sammy, I’m not debating politics. I’m talking bodies. There are many, many more of them than of us. And every time some president has trouble here at home, he starts poking around for foreign countries to dominate. Which usually brings him to the Mideast and a peace plan. And every time America starts hawking a peace plan, someone over there gets riled. And I don’t feel good about planting you—my son whom I love very much—in the middle of danger.”

“It’s not dangerous!” Sammy insisted.

“Why? Just because a couple of immortal, teenage boys say so?” Decker said. “Look, maybe I’m just being a stupid American, believing all this press about the area being a hot zone. Maybe the Arabs really do love us and want peace and if you’re stuck out there on the road at three A.M., they’ll be happy to help you—”

“It’s not safe to be stuck on the road at three A.M. here either,” Sammy shouted.

“Difference is you’ve got a car phone and you can call me. Who are you going to call over there, Sammy?”

Sammy put down his fork and slumped. No one spoke for a minute. Finally, the boy said, “Abba went there.”

Another period of protracted silence. Then Decker said, “I know he did. Do you think he’d want you to put your life in danger—”

“My life wouldn’t be in danger! You’re overreacting. As always!”

Decker started to speak, then stopped. He pushed his plate away. “Fine, Sammy. You asked for my opinion. You know how I feel. If it would be up to me, you’d go to Yeshiva University directly—”

“I told you, I’ll get credit for my year in Israel.”

Decker bit his lip. “I’m staying out of this one. It’s your decision.”

“Fine, so I’ll go to Gush.”

Decker shrugged. “Can I ask you one thing?”

“What?”

“If Gush wasn’t an option, where else could you go?”

“Kerem b’Yavneh,” Rina said. “Shalavim.”

Decker looked at Rina. “Are those bad places?”

“Bad?”

“In dangerous areas?”

“They’re inside the green line.”

“Are they good yeshivas?”

“They’re excellent.”

“As good as Gush?”

“Definitely,” Rina said.

Decker turned to Sammy, the obvious unspoken. The teen threw up his hands. “If you’re going to forbid me to go to Gush, I suppose I could go to Shalavim.”

“Isn’t David going to Shalavim?” Rina asked.

“I don’t have to do everything David does, Eema. We’re not joined at the hip.”

“I was just saying—”

“Look, it’s up to you,” Sammy burst in. “You’re paying for it.” He stood. “I’m going to take over for Yonkie. Let the good son eat his dinner.” He walked away.

Silence hung in the air. Then Decker whispered, “Where’d he get this good son, bad son bit?”

“He probably feels like a bad son—both to you and to Yitzchak,” Rina whispered back. “He wants you to make the decision for him.”

“I’m not going to do it.” Decker nibbled on a floret of broccoli. “I’ve had my say. Rest is up to him … or you.” A beat. “Do you have any feelings about it?”

“I’d like him behind the green line.”

“So why didn’t you say something?”

“I figure one of us is enough. Why overwhelm him?”

“Wouldn’t have anything to do with being loyal to your husband’s memory, would it?”

Rina was taken aback. “Peter, you’re my husband. Your opinion is paramount over anything else. I thought we were over this.”

Decker rubbed his forehead. “I’m sorry.”

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